


Bold and Brave

by CasinoLights



Series: I Slithered Here From Eden Just To Lie Down At Your Door [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Bonding Time, Canon? What Canon?, F/M, Fluff, cute domestic stuff, nsfw in chapter 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-27 20:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14433564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasinoLights/pseuds/CasinoLights
Summary: "How is it, he wonders, that Deputy Cleo H. Monroe could become his lover? How is it that someone fed nothing but lies by those blasphemers in uniforms could look upon him with such care? He knows it isn’t impossible for someone once bound to the government to change and find the truth - after all, Jacob turned away from that dark path himself - but could someone so directly involved with the enemies of Eden’s Gate really change her heart? She was charged with arresting him and his family only a few months ago, yet she welcomes them all now with a tender warmth John never knew an outsider could have. He wants to capture that warmth for himself, keep it enclosed like a flame in a lantern, only for him to feel at his leisure."A set of five ficlets, loosely related, taking place during one day in the life of John Seed and the deputy who refused to arrest his brother that day in the chapel. Inspired by a set of five prompts ranging from "Let's Talk" to "Let's F**k."





	1. Let's Talk

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of backstory: Cleo didn't arrest Joseph at the chapel, immediately resigned, and stayed with Adelaide for a couple days until John showed up at the door with the keys to a tiny little farmhouse he'd been saving for Faith. He said it was his way of thanking Cleo for "following the light" and they slowly started to build up an unlikely friendship that turned into an unlikely romance. This is just a few snapshots of a day in their lives several months later. I hope you enjoy it!

When faced with a choice in the heart of Joseph’s church, the deputy made the right one. It was more than John Seed had expected of her, of _anyone_ , and when she pushed her badge into the sheriff’s hands, he knew she was special. So he followed her. Even though she deigned to walk all the way home, he followed her. The path she took was long, and at times, arduous, but he clung to the shadows like he was born in them - and wasn’t he, at that? He only emerged when she stopped at a burned-out church, a crumbling husk of a place held together with what little faith remained inside. She sat on the steps and unfastened a chain from her neck, glinting gold in the midday sun, then cupped it in her hands and stared down at it. Her eyes closed on their own and her back slumped. John watched as she rose to her feet, lifted her face to the sun, and dropped her necklace at the steps of the chapel.

Now, he holds the chain in his hands, standing outside the deputy’s door once again. Guilt tints his cheeks red, as it did the first time he stood here, and the wind feels bitterly cold on his arms as it rushes by. He raises his hand to knock, then stops short, looking down at the golden cross in his palm. Dainty, like she is, it looks simple and well-worn. It seems to have had an engraving at one point, but worrying fingers have smoothed it away.

He raises his hand to knock again… and stops. People do not make John Seed _nervous_. Maybe Jacob, but never John. No, no, the Baptist is and always has been a people person, someone to whom the lonely flock.

So why does his throat close around itself now?

The deputy’s door swings open before John can knock again, and Cleo brushes her hands on her yellow apron as she stands in the threshold.

“Are you here to say hello or just stand out in the cold all afternoon?” She shoots him a smile worthy of a magazine cover and extends one of her hands toward the hallway. “Come on in, John. I was just making some fudge.”

He steps inside and hastily shoves her necklace into his pocket. “If I knew you were making fudge, I would’ve come yesterday.”

“But I wasn’t making—oh. Oh!” Cleo brushes a strand of thick, dark hair away from her face - the same strand that she never, ever manages to contain in her headband. “Silly me.” She leads John to the kitchen, cramped though it may be, where a pan full to the lip of warm fudge sits on a woven trivet.

“It isn’t set, so don’t you touch it.” She swats his hand to make her point. “If I find a fingerprint in this fudge I’m never feeding you again.”

He laughs and takes hold of the hand that smacked his, bringing it to his lips before flashing that dazzling smile. “Well, we can’t have that. And I’ll be in trouble if I don’t bring at least one piece back to Faith…”

“Did you think I’d let you go without one? You’re not leaving here without one for Jacob and Joseph, too, and if I ask your sister how my fudge was and she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, I’m blaming you.” Cleo turns her back, revealing what she’s wearing under her apron. The cropped shirt is what sets John’s mind alight, and the high-waisted, high-cut shorts have something _else_ heating up too.

He clenches and unclenches his fists a few times as Cleo cleans up her workspace before gently sliding the fudge into the fridge. She moves so finely, carefully, like she’s made of nothing but air and light - and John _hates_ her for it. She’s much like Faith, though her skin is darker and her thighs are fuller, and she’s oh so obsessed with “the right thing” that it makes his skin crawl. But her laughter, her soft touches, the way she just… oh, God, he _needs_ her.

Joseph says it isn’t lust if John loves her. It isn’t sex; it’s making love. He’d gone to his brother, frightened for his soul, the first day he woke entangled with her. He knelt before Joseph with sweet perfume on his clothes and smeared lipstick on his skin, begging forgiveness, confessing a sin he thought he was free of long ago, and Joseph merely knelt with him and showed him the light. Love is what turns lust from a sin to an act of worship - and John had never felt his heart so full.

How is it, he wonders, that Deputy Cleo H. Monroe could become his lover? How is it that someone fed nothing but lies by those blasphemers in uniforms could look upon him with such care? He knows it isn’t impossible for someone once bound to the government to change and find the truth - after all, Jacob turned away from that dark path himself - but could someone so directly involved with the enemies of Eden’s Gate really change her heart? She was charged with arresting him and his family only a few months ago, yet she welcomes them all now with a tender warmth John never knew an outsider could have. He wants to capture that warmth for himself, keep it enclosed like a flame in a lantern, only for him to feel at his leisure.

“John?”

He’s been staring at her neck, he realizes - that soft stretch of skin he’s kissed and touched and bitten so many times now. When he brings his gaze back up to her face, her deep, dark eyes are wide with that sweet concern he finds so endearing. A grin crosses his lips and he leans back against the counter. “What can I say? You’re distracting.”

She brushes his arm with the back of her hand. “You look like you want to talk. What did you really come here for?”

His hand finds the golden cross in his pocket. _Her_ golden cross. Gingerly, he folds it in his palm and presses it into hers. “I think this is yours.”

Recognition sparks in her eyes even though she hasn’t yet seen the necklace in her hand. “Where did you get this, John?”

When he can’t look her in the eye anymore, he looks down to her lips and follows them as she repeats the question. With a dry tongue, he replies, “Where you left it.”

“You followed me,” she whispers. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. The silence between them is thick enough to serve as a response of its own.

She can’t take it, so she fastens the cross around her neck and kisses John softly. His beard scratches at her chin as her lips find his, a chaste peck fit for a storybook. His fingers trace her jaw as she pulls away, and she cups her delicate hand around his wrist. “It was my grandmother’s necklace,” she says quietly, barely louder than the humming refrigerator. “I had to keep it hidden from my mother, but I’ve worn it since I was a kid. Nana was religious; Mom wasn’t… and she wanted to make sure I wasn’t raised the way Nana raised her.”

“What’s wrong with religion?” John asks, that familiar spark in his eye. “Or was your mother just too attached to her own sins?”

Cleo shakes her head and looks away from him. “She’s still alive, you know. She’s a good person. She just never really believed in God.”

“How unfortunate.”

She shoots a soft glare his way and he closes his mouth. “At any rate, Nana gave me this cross and I suppose religion sort of brought us closer. I had to keep it hidden from Mom, of course, but it was worth it. Nana practically raised me until she died.”

A hitch in his breath has her hand at his chest, and he manages, “Sorry.” He isn’t, but he won’t be caught unsympathetic for her loss, not for this woman with so much love in her heart.

“I’m alright. It happened a long time ago.” She touches the cross at her neck with her free hand and sets her lips to John’s stubbled cheek. “Thank you for bringing this back to me, even if you were stalking me.”

“I don’t _stalk_!” he protests indignantly as she steps away with a sprightly bounce. “I… ah…”

“Follow?” Cleo suggests, her head in the fridge as she checks the fudge. “Still sort of stalking. Fudge’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“You can tell just by looking at it?”

She reemerges with a chocolate grin. “Of course not!”

He crosses the tiny kitchen in one stride and kisses her, soft and slow, tasting dark and bittersweet from more than just fudge.


	2. Let's Play

John would never admit to Cleo that he’d not watched many movies in his life - after all, his adoptive parents were too busy beating him to take him to the theater, and after he’d left them behind he didn’t care for anything that wouldn’t bring him that instant pleasure he craved. So by the eighth time she’d started up a movie, asked him if he’d seen it before, and made a shocked face when he said no, she began to realize it for herself. Once she understood, she started picking different films, favorites of hers for him to enjoy and shorter ones to get him used to the format. He usually got bored about halfway through, regardless of the genre, so he’d settle into the sofa cushions and watch Cleo.

Her eyes dart across the screen - she always finds something new in a movie no matter how many times she’s watched it, she says, and perhaps this watchfulness is why - and she fidgets with her necklace as she does. Her feet tap along with the music of this bootlegged copy of _Singin’ In The Rain_ , and she has a faraway look he doesn’t often see. She’s always thinking, always working, whether she knows it or not, but the fleeting moments when she lets that go are precious.

She’s barely touched the popcorn he made before the movie started, burnt at the edges and far too salty. She’d protested when he offered to make it, but she eventually relinquished control of the microwave. Whether it was out of pity or a misguided hope that he could actually cook something, it was an awful decision by all accounts.

John knows exactly what to do with it now, though.

“Cleo, catch!”

A piece bounces off her cheek and into her lap, and she raises an indignant scowl to John’s eyes as she flicks the popcorn back at him.

He tries to catch it in his mouth and fails miserably, then has to fish it out of the folds of his shirt as Cleo’s laughter muffles the movie in the background.

“Try again,” she says, tossing another piece at him. Again, it tumbles onto his chest instead. He throws it at her and she leans into it, mouth open, eyes wide, and by some miracle, she catches it on her tongue and raises her hands to the ceiling in triumph.

John throws up his fist and reaches for another, but she waves her finger.

“Nuh-uh,” she mumbles past a mouthful of popcorn, “ith your turn!”

By accident, she banks a second piece off his forehead and back into the bowl, and he opens his mouth in an expression of mock outrage as her giggles echo through the little house.

“Cleo!” The second syllable becomes an exaggerated whine, and her grin only widens.

“It’s just so _spacious_! I can’t help it!”

“Hey!” He lobs a few more pieces at her, one bouncing off the tip of her nose and eliciting chuckles from them both. “You wanna play? We can play.”

Before he can reach for the bowl for more ammunition, she has a fistful of popcorn and is aiming steadily for his head. “We _sure_ can.”

He shields his face with his hand just in time for a small barrage of popcorn (and maybe a kernel or two) to ricochet off it. He peeks out through the spaces between his fingers to see her hastily rummaging in the bowl for some sturdy pieces, so he takes her by the wrist while he haphazardly throws popcorn at her. She wriggles free and drops an entire handful onto his head, and he retaliates by dumping the bowl onto her head.

She squeals with laughter and he descends upon her like a hunter, fingers already curled into the tickle position. Swatting his arms, she nearly rolls off the couch in her efforts to escape him, but he catches her and pins her in with his knees. She beats against his chest, palms flat, even as he laughs above her like he’s won something wonderful, and she can’t help but smile too. Seeing him so _free_ is like a blessing in itself, found all in his eyes. Pure blue, untainted by the dark shadows of anger that so often plague him. He’s earned this joy, and she wonders what Joseph sees in him now that he’s made room in his heart for something that isn’t wrath.

He brushes her salty hair away from her face and leaves a smacking kiss on her forehead as Gene Kelly swings from a streetlight on the television behind them. John taps Cleo’s skin to the beat, soft as raindrops, and she moves her arms from his chest to the nape of his neck. She cradles him like that, in her own small way, and admires him as he plants kisses with cool lips from her cheeks to her collarbone. His beard tickles her skin and sends shivers through her limbs, but he keeps her close as he starts to nibble her earlobe. She kicks her feet playfully until he lifts his face from her neck and narrows his eyes at her, then shifts down the sofa and catches her ankles between his hands.

“Listen here, wiggle-worm—”

She interrupts with a sharp laugh as she perches herself up on her elbows. “Oooh, no, he’s coming to get me…”

With a flash of a wanton smile, he replies, “If that’s what you want, I’m happy to oblige.”


	3. Let's Fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pure smut, so if you're just here for the fluff, you can feel free to skip this chapter. (But I hope you don't. ^_^)

She kneels over his lap, kissing him to the final notes of “You Are My Lucky Star.” His fingers fumble blindly for the remote, find it, then promptly drop it onto the cracked hardwood floor. Something inside it rattles on impact, but neither of them look toward it. Her lips are on his skin, teeth grazing his neck, every impatient bob of his throat accompanied by one of her soft chuckles. She knows what she’s doing to him, and he hates it. God, no, he loves it, and he knows, deep down, even if he’ll never admit it. He loves what she can do to him in just a matter of moments. Somewhere, despite all his talk of repentance and clarity, he still loves to be unwound by fingers and lips.

The television breaks into static and Cleo startles, nails digging into John’s scalp and shoulder for the briefest of moments before she laughs herself down.

“My dear Miss Monroe…” he inhales deeply, stroking her sides. “Should we take this somewhere more comfortable?” He doesn’t wait for her reply before hoisting her up off the couch and into his arms. “Say, your bed?”

She twines her legs around his waist and he nearly trips over the coffee table. Her eyes are alight with mischief, and she leaves fluttering kisses across his cheeks as he walks her to the bedroom. It’s cramped, like everything in this house - big enough for one, and little else - but the bed suits them both like it was made for them. John drops Cleo on it, lets her bounce, and has his belt in his hand before she’s even settled.

Under her breath, Cleo whispers, “This one’s gonna be fun.”

John wraps his belt around his hand, clenches and unclenches his fist around it as Cleo pulls her shirt up over her head. She leans back on her knees and beckons him forward with her finger. Belt still in hand, he crawls onto the bed until he’s met with the same finger at his lips, pushing him gently backwards.

“Ladies first, John.”

A wicked smirk pulls at his cheeks. “Is that so?”

“Vest.”

He unbuttons the offending garment, tantalizingly slow, and as soon as it’s free she has her hand under his shirt, trailing one fingernail up his chest. He hooks his finger under the waistband of her jean shorts, tugging her closer as he pulls them down, and she reluctantly offers one of her hands to unfasten the closure and provide access. She catches his wrist as he tries to slip his hand lower, however, and waves her finger at him scoldingly.

“Ah-ah.” She presses herself against his chest and breathes, “Patience is a virtue.”

He laughs as she removes his shirt and drapes it over her shoulders like a caplet. “Aren’t you the feisty one tonight?”

“Food fights just get me in the mood.” She traces one of his many tattoos with one hand while her other slowly works its way down to his straining jeans. “I don’t know how it happens.”

He grins. “Ahh, so if… something were to befall the fudge tomorrow morning…”

She smacks the back of her hand against his shoulder. “How dare! That fudge is sacred.”

His fingers still twitching at her waistband, he starts kissing her exposed shoulder. “Mm-hmm.”

She rubs his shoulders and lets her head fall back as he begins to suck on her neck, right over her pulse point. The rapid throbbing on his tongue has him painfully aware of just how tight his pants are, but her words play over in his ear again. _Patience is a virtue_. He struggles with her bra hooks for a moment before snapping them open, and he bites her delicate neck as she shrugs off the straps. He palms one of her breasts eagerly, eyes still shut as he works that spot on her neck, and the soft moan of appreciation she gives sends a heatwave down his spine like the summer sun.

Her fingers curl around his waistband and he abandons his belt, dropping it to the floor with his shirt and vest. He uses his newly-freed hand to unzip and unbutton his jeans, letting her pull them down enough for him to kick them off. His boxers go with them, and the sight of his bare body beneath her is enough to send her into overdrive. She sheds her shorts and panties in a series of fluid motions, and she’s poised above him in seconds.

“John.”

“ _Cleo_.”

It’s an unspoken question and its clear answer, in a language only they can understand in the heat of the moment. Cleo brings herself down, capturing his lips as she begins the act. She gasps into the kiss, hesitates her descent - it’s a fit she isn’t quite sure of, but John rolls his hips and then she’s _certain_. Her teeth graze his tongue and a groan rumbles in his throat. So she does it again. He cradles the back of her skull and deepens the kiss, savoring her soft sighs and the sound of his skin on hers.

Lips swollen, she breaks the kiss and rolls her head back as she lifts herself off him and comes back down quicker. He swallows his moan and brings his lips to her chest, working with her slow rhythm to formulate one of his own. He takes one of her pert nipples between his lips, tongue lapping at her sensitive skin, and when she rises, his teeth gently keep it in place.

“Mmmm, John…” She strokes the back of his head and slowly twists her hips back and forth. His sharp intake of breath and his suddenly tense muscles are his reward. She plies him with soft touches and slow movements, and he looks up at her from his place between her breasts with a lazy smile and hooded eyes.

“You look so pretty,” she murmurs, coming down against his hips once more. “You like having me up here?”

He cups her cheek with one hand, her breast with the other. “Cleo, I’d like you anywhere.”

She leans her head down to kiss him again, lips nipped between teeth and tongues twined together. Her pace quickens, and as he begins to bite harder, she lets him go and focuses instead on herself. His hands are everywhere - in her hair, at her sides, on her ass - and when they find her throat, she’s sighing his name and riding him fast.

He’s left with barely enough sense to kiss her skin. Whatever he touches, he squeezes hard, and it’s only when she’s tapping at his arm that he realizes he’s been choking her.

Her eyes are blown wide as the red marks from his fingers begin to blossom across her neck like a collar, but she smiles like she’s enjoyed it from the start.

“Careful, tiger,” she whispers. It might be as loud as she can manage with a half-crushed windpipe. “Am I going too fast for you?”

John wets his lips. “Never.”

“Good.” So she moves faster.

His climax comes upon him like a river current, tugging at his every sense and dragging it under the wave. He counts himself lucky she knows his face, knows that cracking pitch of his voice just before it happens so she can separate their bodies before he spills himself. And spill he does, fingers tightening around Cleo’s thighs as she sweeps his hair back from his eyes.

“Look at you,” she murmurs gently. “Had fun?”

When there’s breath in his lungs to reply, he chuckles hoarsely and says, “Not enough.” Before she can react, he’s reversed their positions, still panting, and has her flat on the bed while he’s perched between her knees. “That was just the main course.”

She shivers as his breath touches her inner thighs and his fingers creep upward from her knees.

“John…”

He slides up so he’s hovering above her and brings one of her fingers to his lips. “Shhhh. Just relax.” He parts his lips and takes her finger into his mouth, making a show of sucking on it for her, and she cants her head with a wry smile as she watches.

His other hand is at her center, now, still slick and hot from their coupling, and he begins to trace smooth lines around it. When he sets her finger free with a lewd _pop_ , her head falls back against the pillow and she offers a long sigh. He turns his full attention southward, and the simple act of spreading her thighs has the muscles in her legs tensing. He can’t help but smile impishly as he runs a finger up and down her slit and watches her squirm in response.

“Don’t you close your eyes,” he orders before he licks his fingers clean. “I want those on me.”

Through urgent breaths, she manages, “Wouldn’t want ‘em anywhere else.”

“Good girl.” He strokes her cheek, then wraps his lips around her clit like a man starved.

Lightning runs from her crown to her toes as John works his mouth so damned gently. The contented hums he makes don’t help her any - both the pure lust in the sound itself and the teensy vibrations have her back arched in an almost-agony she’s unfamiliar with. He’s infuriatingly patient, letting her shivers subside fully before he dives back in with renewed fervor, and the longer he makes her wait, the more electric his next kiss feels.

Cleo begins to lose track of how many times he stops before she can finish, and she _knows_ he’s doing this on purpose. Her fingers are curled so tightly around fistfuls of the bedsheets that her knuckles have gone from white to blue, and still he persists. He cups her entrance with his lips before flicking his tongue inside, hand stretched out to hold one of hers as her fingers twitch like she’s being shocked.

She stammers his name over and over and over again, voice pitched higher than he’s ever heard it, and his cock is already aching for her once more. Her needy whines are more than he’s capable of withstanding, so he positions himself at her apex and thrusts in once.

And that’s all it takes. She clenches around him, muscles all firing strong as her mouth stretches in a silent scream of pure pleasure. Her eyes shut of their own accord, but John allows it as he leans in to kiss her forehead and stroke her face. Her eyelids flutter and her fingers slow their shaking as she rides the molten wave from her core outward, and once the last few pulses of intensity have passed, she looks up at John with wide eyes and parted lips.

“See, now? Wasn’t that better?”

She can barely summon the strength to nod, and he finishes himself over her.


	4. Let's Cuddle

The knives in Cleo’s kitchen are dull on purpose. When John offered her the old house, he scraped them all against a piece of scrap metal before she moved in. She doesn’t seem to mind, but he certainly does as he fights with an apple. All he wants are four even slices - is that too much to ask for?

He ends up bringing Cleo three jagged pieces and a mushy fourth one, along with a glass of ice cold water and a kiss on the nose. He slips into bed next to her and wraps his arm around her shoulders as she slowly eats the apple.

“How’d we do?” John asks, voice soft. “You alright?”

Cleo nods and sips her water. “You’re… huh.”

“I’m _huh_?”

“I don’t know if I should say ‘amazing’ or ‘infuriating.’ You’re both of those.”

He chuckles and takes her free hand with his, fingers laced together and thumb caressing her knuckles. “Well, that makes two of us.”

She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, listening to the rhythmic sounds of his breath and the rain pattering on the tin roof. He smells of her, but also of Bliss flowers and river water, and she can tell from that where he’d been in the small hours of the morning before dropping by to see her.

Her John, her Baptist was always in the river, purifying new members of Eden’s Gate and becoming the first face they saw in their new lives. She sometimes wondered what he would do if she asked him to baptize her. Would he mark her with a sin, like he’d done to himself? Would he keep her in confinement until she confessed to everything and anything she’d ever done in her life? Or would he simply kiss her and beckon her to the water with open arms? She’s heard their hymns and seen one of Joseph’s sermons, and he preaches forgiveness and love. He says the fastest way to God’s side is through love of one’s family.

Is John her family now?

He’d tried to slip a few of the Bliss flowers into a bouquet he brought her once. She’d slapped him and locked him out, but she went to him one unseasonably cold night and welcomed him back. She’d felt weak, unlike herself, and under an influence stronger than anything the Bliss could give her. John has that effect on her. A pull she doesn’t understand - nor does she want to.

He could have come back to her house when she’d locked him out. He had a spare key she never knew about. He chose to let her have that small victory, however, for he would find a way to make her part of the family of her own accord. She would choose it for herself someday. She would say yes to him, finally, and he would get to move her out of this place and into the compound where she could be with Faith and Joseph and maybe even Jacob. She would love all of them. She already does, through him. He hasn’t forgotten that she’s sending him home with a treat for his siblings.

He kisses her hair and buries his nose in it. The soap she uses is made with honey and lavender, sweet scents for a sweet woman, and she’s said they were her nana’s favorites. She talks about her nana often, saying she was her “missing mother figure” and using psychology mumbo-jumbo he doesn’t understand. He likes educated women, but God, could she ever go over his head. He listens, though. Nods and “mm-hmms” and smiles when she gets excited. He doesn’t want her thinking her six years of college were useless, after all.

The sound of her crunching on another apple slice shakes him from his thoughts. “What did you cut these with?” she asks between bites. “The rolling pin?”

“It’s not my fault your knives are dull.” She didn’t really need to know the truth about that…

“Mmm, but you could’ve used a smaller one. You went for the butcher knife, didn’t you?” He pouts, and she laughs before kissing his curled lips. “Leave it to you to pick the biggest one possible.”

“I like having a big knife.”

“But it’s what you do with it that counts.” She makes a face at him, scrunching up her nose, and he taps the tip of it playfully before pulling her tight.

Their foreheads meet and their noses touch, and as he stares into her big, beautiful brown eyes, he feels warm, soft peace radiating from their contact to his very center. This is what Joseph always preaches, he realizes. This is what it’s like to bow before God himself and be blessed in His sight. This is what it’s like to love, fully and deeply.

She closes her eyes again and nestles her head against his chest. His heartbeat thumps quietly in her ear and she matches her breathing to his. She absently traces his scars with her ring finger as he rests his chin atop her head and his arms weave protectively around her back. This is what her nana always talked about, she realizes. This is what it’s like to find a home in a world that never stops tearing houses down. This is what it’s like to belong, wholly and unconditionally.


	5. Let's Sleep

With Cleo curled up in his arms, John sleeps soundly for the first time in a while. Dreams that would usually be disruptive and upsetting have little effect on him tonight, and when he does stir awake he can fall asleep again in minutes. Just the familiar weight of her head on his chest is enough to remind him he isn’t a child, isn’t a sinner, isn’t going to be dragged from his bed in the middle of the night and be punished for things he didn’t do.

She mumbles in her sleep, mostly incoherent things and short whispers. He likes to listen to her regardless, and whenever he wakes he kisses her forehead just to hear her little noises. She snuggles tighter against him and hums with contentment each time he does it. She’s easy to tucker out, but he likes that about her. He likes it when she falls asleep on the sofa midway through a movie and he gets to carry her back to bed, or when he’s driving her back home and she dozes off in the passenger seat. She looks calm when she’s sleeping, stereotypical though that may seem, and he savors that.

He wakes up before she does, opening his eyes at the first sign of sunlight creeping through the dusty drapes. Following his routine, he kisses Cleo’s forehead and she sighs happily before nestling against him. He strokes her tangled hair, gently unweaving small knots as he finds them, and closes his eyes. He drifts in and out of sleep a few times, watching the fleeting, disconnected images his mind makes between the two worlds. They’re mostly of Cleo, and in one of his half-dreams, she sits with Faith in a sunny field weaving tiaras of Bliss flowers. In another, she’s caged in Jacob’s training grounds with scabby knees and bandaged hands. Still another has her barely scraping by, clinging to a meager existence fighting his family.

John rubs his eyes when he’s had enough and peppers Cleo’s face with light kisses. She sleepily waves him away even as a smile stretches across her lips. As he pulls himself into a sitting position, he caresses her forehead and tucks her shoulders under the sheets.

She moves like she’s following him, stretching languidly and whispering something affectionate into her pillow, and he leaves her sprawled across the mattress with his pillow in her arms.

He loves her, _oh_ , _God_ , he does.

She’s politely discouraged him from cooking breakfast since the “Ham and Eggs Incident” back in June, but she never said anything about cold foods. So he sets out everything to make cereal and fashions some kind of fruit salad with blueberries, raspberries, almonds, and cantaloupe. He tries to make coffee, too, but he burns his finger on the kettle and decides that’s a pretty good sign he shouldn’t push his luck.

Luckily, she emerges from the bedroom not long after, wearing his shirt and little else, and his smile could power the farmhouse for a year. He waggles his eyebrows at her and she laughs, crossing the kitchen to swat his arm and pop a piece of cantaloupe into her mouth.

“I thought I told you not to make breakfast,” she says with a mouthful of melon.

“You told me not to _cook_ ,” he corrects, tousling her hair and pouring her a bowl of cereal. “You never said anything about cold foods.”

She slides onto one of the stools at the counter. “Got me there.”

“Your teapot bit me, though.” He pouts for effect and shows her the offended finger, which she air-kisses.

“Aww, my poor baby. That bad ol’ teapot hurt your feelings? Should I call your big brother Joe to come get you?”

“Oh, so we’re acting like this today, are we?” He pulls her bowl away from her. “No breakfast for you.”

He feeds her eventually - though not without several kisses as an apology.

* * *

She drives him home once they’re both dressed, and the sun is shining on rippling green grass in another beautiful day in Hope County. Though John would be fine with walking back to the ranch just fine, Cleo loves to drive and every time she takes him home is another chance he gets to bring her inside.

She’s always declined so far. Kindly, of course - Cleo Monroe is nothing if not courteous - but it’s still a “no” when he wants to hear “yes.”

So he turns on the radio, pushes his seat all the way back, and drapes his feet out the window in the passenger side of Cleo’s old truck as she steers down the dusty back roads in the valley. She’s bobbing her head to the beat, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, as John pantomimes playing instruments to her right.

She glances over every so often, smiling wide at his grand motions and exaggerated expressions. As a new song comes through the speakers, John plays an invisible guitar and half-shouts the lyrics out the window. Cleo laughs as she watches him gleefully performing an occasionally cringeworthy rendition of Psychotic Reaction, but ever so slowly, the grin fades.

His movements slow - or maybe just her perception of them - and her heartbeat is loud in her ears. Louder than the radio, louder than John’s voice. She looks at him and sees a man. A good man. A _happy_ man. A man who loves her. He isn’t always the poster boy for the Project; strip it away and there’s a human being beneath all the scripture and grandeur. His violent intensity frightens her at times, it’s true, but in times like this when he lets it all go, he’s just a normal man with normal habits.

She doesn’t know her own heart when he’s near. Or maybe she does, and has all along, and just refuses to admit it to herself. She’s asked herself over and over, every time he leaves, if she can forgive herself for giving up her job - her _future_ for him and his family and she’s never received the same answer twice. But something inside her is ready to respond honestly. It rings true right now, in the brightness of his smile and the crisp autumn wind and the peace in her heart.

She is in love with John Seed, and she can finally accept that.

She steers the car away from an incoming four-wheeler with preternatural speed as she realizes she’s been coasting this whole time while staring at John, then grinds the truck to a halt.

“Cleo?” John is peering worriedly at her, hand on her thigh. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

She rakes a trembling hand through her hair and sighs before turning the radio off. “It’s fine. I’m just… um… I’m still tired.”

“Let me drive,” he says. He squeezes her leg and hops out of the truck, but she’s still sitting when he reaches her side. He extends his arm to help her down, which she takes, but she stops him before he gets back in.

“John, I… I think that I… might… ah…” She huffs, impatient with herself, and clears her throat to start again. “What I mean is… you should… I want to… _ugh._ ”

His hands find her shoulders and hold them tightly. “It’s alright. What’s bothering you?”

She takes a deep breath, and this time it comes out fluently. “Baptize me.”

He looks completely bewildered for a moment before he blinks it away. All he can manage is, “Yes?”

“Yes, John.”

His embrace is tighter than any she’s ever felt, and the kisses he leaves across her face are made of fire and joy. He takes both of her hands in his and rests his forehead against hers, his chest heaving with the emotions inside him. “I love you, Cleo. You will never regret this.”

She hopes she won’t - and wishes she had his certainty. She settles for reciprocation instead. “I love you too, John. I really do.”

“I’ll hold a new Cleansing, just for you.” The eagerness in his eyes and voice can’t be mistaken for anything else. “Joseph will preside, and I’ll ask Faith to be there, and Jacob can bring his newest soldier to be purified alongside you.”

Cleo swallows nervously. “Is there… will I have to do anything?”

“You’ll confess to me, of course, but I know your heart well.” He touches her face, fingertips brushing her cheeks and chin. “There’s barely any room for darkness inside you.”

She’s seen what a confession looks like, traced the scars of John’s own sins. He is not always gentle. “Will it hurt?”

He moves his hand to her chest, just below her collarbone. “I would never hurt you, Cleo.”

Softly, she exhales. And then she lies. “I know.”

And then, unspoken: _I will love you even if you do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this short piece for John and Cleo! Ask me anything here or on my tumblr, @casino-lights, and feel free to leave a review with anything from constructive critique to a recipe for chicken soup. ^_^


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